Will you still love me
by Late to the Party
Summary: "I gave you back your wings. Wings of light and love; restored by the power of blood. In this place, such a thing is binding. Here, one god's will overturns another's. Embrace -my- wings." The flight of the Songbird and the Raven. AU.
1. I

**A/N: By request of allworkandnoplay2011, an Aerie romance. A romance asked for, and all the details left to me… **

* * *

I

"Can you still love me?"

A quivering hand steadied. Slender fingers cupped, then interlaced scarred, soft hands. Faded ink stains, quill caused calluses and the weather could not stop their warmth, nor stop the memory of their touch. Their strength, their gentleness, their elegance weaving. Resolve banished doubt. Aerie smiled.


	2. II

II

It had been like waking from a dream. Madness, darkness, endless pain. Mercy was a sweet release he didn't know; from the gloom, he staggered into sunlight, half blinded. The words of his tormentor followed him. Awake or asleep, there was no day. He didn't remember. Fragments. Fractured memories. Detonations. The rush of air, rubble, burning, stone fused with wood and mortar. Colours danced, rainbows caught in liquid, a thousand shades in a bubble of iridescent dye; his arms could not cover the sights, the scent of death, the rawness. Somehow, his feet carried him free.

Later, he recalled the gloom, the relief it brought his strained eyes. The tent barely registered, nor its dull paintwork, the smell of straw and folk, of beast. His sight had filled with beauty no celestial could match; ethereal grace in shy smile, nervous yet kind, blue he lost himself in. Bruised porcelain framed with golden locks, the fallen leaves against the forest floor. And then a voice.

"Mock me, will you?! No one defies the great Kalah!"

Everything blurred.

Arcane symbols forced themselves into his mind, searing between sight and vision, his whisper hoarse, harsh, unbidden. Dredges of memory, from another life, a haze of dusty old tomes and grassy glades, of tepid seas swirling white, crags and mountains, roads and… a haze of vibrant white; colours bled, soaked, dripping glassy tears. Shimmering, resonance, silence. Deafening still while everything shook.

Tiny, demanding, the voice bleated, dying. "No! Filthy wretches… this wasn't - wasn't what was promised me!"

Darkness swallowed his senses.

—

"H-hello?"

Gentle words reached through oblivion, warmth cradling him. Heavy lids rose of their own accord; waves of dizziness swelled around him. The faint scent of flowers reached up through his nostrils, tendrils anchoring him more than the ground beneath. Fabric too coarse, too heavy, fell from shoulders too thin, too frail to be real. Her touch firm, delicate, caught bemusement. Arms so spindly would break like twigs, not hold wiry muscles, nor fingers to tilt his face? She misread the question.

"K-Kalah's lamp exploded. Th-there was a Djinn… he's gone, K-Kalah's dead."

It didn't make sense. It didn't matter.

"A-are you hurt?"

In her eyes, he saw the scars. Features disfigured… slashed. Concern turned to horror.

"You – you didn't know?"

Fingers, his own, hesitated over his cheek; her hand caught his. Fear, loathing, his; pity, compassion, hers. She didn't ask; he didn't answer. Shards floated to the fore, the vision a blur. The magic flowed from him. Her voice brought him back.

"I-I'm Aerie."

He didn't have anywhere to go.

—

Days faded into dusk, and nights to dawn. Noon crept up and stole away again. Clouds charged past, their payload cast, and the winds ghosted by unnoticed. He sat and stared while the world moved on. Athkatla never stopped bustling, never quietened; with dusk, new noises crawled out and murder sang its song. Death carried on the air, and the sleepers never stirred.

Aerie's arms snaked around his neck. Theirs was a room facing the sea, the shutters his only window to the wider panorama. The floorboards were silent for her; they creaked for the salt bitten breeze. In another life, he would have turned; she did not mind.

"I brought d-dinner."

The hot smell of fish broth, bread and lukewarm ale backed up her words. They couldn't afford wine. She smiled as she tried to tell him what they called wine probably wasn't made from grapes. He never reached for the bowl.

If grace oozed from others, it flowed from her. Gentling, she seated herself and took up the wooden spoon. Rough, splintering, it was a far cry from the grandeur Kalah dreamed of. She described it, haltingly, that vision that flashed and withered, the djinn and shockwave. She studied him when she spoke, sometimes. Blowing on it, she offered him, then sipped when he made no move to eat. "I-it's good," she lied, smiling. "F-fresh." Half a lie. Good for the fare it was. Rats dined better. He turned away.

Her sigh echoed, then her hand found his and squeezed.

—

His strength returned. His voice took longer. Dreams he should not have taunted him. His captor's voice rang out; his lips moved in silence. At his side, she listened. Slowly, he described the fragments; often, he turned away. Patience was her virtue; compassion was her strength. His pain was numbed; her hurt alive. Her eyes voiced it, and when it was too much, her hand reached out; it froze him. Shards of a former life spilled forth; of roads and mines, darkness and night, sun and fields, of books and halls. Villages and townsfolk. A city and a brother, a ghost. She listened.


	3. III

III

He was a scholar, a student of words. He studied the arcane, lore ancient and new. From his lips, he commanded power; from his hands, he wove signs. The elements were his to form, mirage and lightning, phantom and flame. Runes, the dead, the throb of life. He pulsed with its hum. Hours he spent listening, tracing its flow; spidery script, meaning and form. Knowledge.

Reason his gift, recall his talent, he had a knack for the obscure. Details and symmetry, the synergy of sound. He spoke as one born to it, resonate with grace. The chant was in tune, the roar of the sea, the whisper of the breeze; the shift of leaves and grass, the clang of a stone against the iron veined ore. Even underground he felt, the tunnels hewn coarsely from picks, tore and chipped away. Rough, smooth, the facets of gem; the surface of bark, the softness of snow. Straw, sand, the beach washed pebble; he could not bear it.

She was there, with him. From her bedroll, she rose, tending the fire, tending him. Her hands pulled the blanket tight, she smoothed his brow, urging him to rest. She would take the watch. The wards were set; his stare followed as dutifully, she checked them. Her complaints were mute; tempered with suggestions, she set the pace, resting often, waiting for him to tire only slightly. Long hours were all she knew, as she spoke of her life at the circus, amongst the animals and gnomes, the humans and tents. Acrobats, trapeze artists, jugglers, dancers, tamers; shows augmented by parlour tricks, all to breathe atmosphere. To bring joy and take coin; there to make an audience swoon, to delight and boo. They never saw the filth, the cracking caravans, the flaking paint. Over the fire, she regaled memories, smiling, then saddened. Another life.

They pressed on.

Through forest and field they walked. Athkatla, city of coin, of opportunity, they put behind them. Their companion silence was banished by the hum of the breeze, the lullaby of insects and the singing of trees. Water gurgled, and animals attended to their lives. Slavers from the city gates thought them easy prey; the crows cawed their thanks. Routine ingrained saw them stripped of possessions and silver; Aerie looked on in disgust and horror. Numbed to the violence, his calm harrowed her more than their foes' threat.

That night, over the fire, she told him of her wings. A child's flight, and vile men, slavers. Through drizzling rain, her words trailed. Tears brushed her eyes and she spoke no more. He listened.

—

Wings struck off, stumps branded. An avariel no longer. She revealed her heart, her pain, and he spoke of his friends, friends he forgot he had. Words spent over many days told stories in fragments, and her horror grew. Wide-eyed, she caught his hand and clung, as if to will the darkness away. Empty, his tone droned on. A throne of iron, built from the blood of the mines, the blades of a host, a sea of flesh. The head a monster, a brother. He had struck down the serpent, severing its head, willing it to wither and die.

That night they embraced; he held her as she spoke of her people, her family. He told her of his.

"G-Gorion?"

"My father."

"A… a human?"

"I never knew my mother."

He fell quiet; she gripped his arm. Understanding warred with uncertainty; she tried, sensing his loss, mourning. The pain he did not feel she felt so keenly; the dull edge masking the yearning, the yawning chasm.

"He stole f-from you."

—

The town of Tradesmeet offered little. Robes so worn their colour was 'bleak', their tatters mattered little to him. While she looked at pretty things, the ghost of a memory rose up and claimed him. A coastal road; gulls and shores, the distant call of sirens. Spray on the wind; kelp, damp; forests and grass. A gazer of stars, a seer; events unfolding… realms beyond his ken.

A riot of colour, tents. A hedgewitch. South, outside the confines of Nashkel, a feud.

North, pitched inside a city; an oracle. Signs, tellers, spinners of future, fortune, misfortune… A djinn. Looming. Terrible. Chained. Black. So black. The walls crushing in. A cage.

Her voice brought him back.

"L-look," Lighting her features, her smile beamed up at him, "Stalls! Clothes!" Then her face fell, "Y-you're tired; we – we should rest."

He didn't answer, but stared at the purple fabric, the white and blue stripes.

"Wh-what are you… oh."

Only his stare tensed. Laying her hand on his arm spoke louder than a yell. They walked past it, and up to the town gates.


	4. IV

IV

Dreams shook him to awareness. Groggily, she sat up beside him. She called his name in question.

"We need to leave."

She stared.

He didn't answer.

"I-it's the middle of the night."

Again, she asked with his name.

"I remember."

"R-remember what?"

His whispered syllable sang, and an image flickered into being; cold, blue eyes harder than stone. Alive, yet dead. A mask of creased flesh, deadened leather.

She bit back a scream.

"Enough." He calmed her. "Enough."

Biting her lip, she nodded slowly and examined the phantom. Her fingers traced its features. "T-this…"

"Yes. The one that did this to me."

Her eyes widened, and hardened.

His own held the still of a frozen lake.

"Wh-where are we going?"

"Athkatla."

She nodded, then slipped her hand into his. His name broke the still. His eyes refocused; the infinite distance evaporated. Lowering back into the bed, she reached and traced his scars. He looked down at her without feeling. Her words intoned a song; the chant broke, and the skin remained marred. Her eyes filled, "I-I'm so sorry."

Leaning down, he kissed her. Her hand lifted to her hair in wonder, and then her smile lit the room.

—

"I – I remember."

He looked at her, not quite quizzically, waiting.

"Y-you… I heard of you. Th-the – from N-Nashkel, the merchants. Th-they spoke of northerners. Th-that was you, wasn't it?"

As so often was his answer, silence greeted her.

"A-and the… there were stories of a merchant house, a cartel. That was y-you?"

She covered her mouth.

He didn't look away.

"Th-then…"

"Candlekeep. My home, for many years."

Slowly, she nodded.

"I had a… she was a friend. The closest to a sister I could have."

"You n-never mentioned her before…"

"I need to find her."

"H-how? Y-you do not even have your s-spell book."

"I am not bound by books. _He_ saw to that."

"I – I don't understand."

"My… potential."

"Y-you don't know w-what he did?"

He reached for his pack.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. He waited for her to dress, then together they broke fast downstairs. A scream, lightning, and a flash interrupted them.

Gaping, she turned to him, "B-Bhaalspawn?" She repeated. "He called y-you…"

He did not answer.


	5. V

V

"How wonderfully mad of you."

Raw power danced, crackling the shimmering air. His friends came against him, reft from life and returned as abominations. They hungered for his blood, the blood of Murder. A single syllable lit the air and the man-sized jars lining the gallery shattered. All around him, darkness stood guard, the stones barring the rhythm of day and night. The chamber was fashioned on those he had known before; sterile, cold, lifeless. A central jar stood, linked by rope magically forged. Snaking metal, but not a chain; like the cables of a ship fed it from the other jars.

Aerie stood behind him, her back against his. Fire sheathed them both, blazing in rings of white, ice and purple. The living dead came at her; a scimitar raised, a clutched spear. Mockeries.

The shockwave knocked them down.

"You cannot resist. You must know you cannot win."

Two wills warred against each other, his captor's words taunting him from memory. The flash of a knife, the slicing of sinew; bone and muscle lanced together. His self separated bit by bit; the flesh a veil. Captured. Held. Over and over. More recent memories. A vision of the island. Passage booked on a ship. Betrayal; the traitor meaningless. The architect had him, had them both. Caged. Darkness. Flaring light. Death. Bodies trapped in jars. A chant, a single word. The veil tore. With a wrench, it lifted; his soul parted, siphoned, stolen.

Invisible light surged; bleeding colours, incandesce scattering, scintillating. Fluctuations shook the air. Time seemed to slow; his eyes rolled back in his head, and darkness engulfed him.

—

Her hand held his cheek; he knew her touch even before his fog faded. Awareness came slowly, then in jolts. Something was different, something had changed. His head still ringing, he awoke to a slightly embarrassed smile, pained relief, and then a raw display of emotion as her arms encircled him.

"I – I th-thought I-I'd lost you."

She smelt different, somehow; her warmth. Her hair tickled. The press of her flesh was uncomfortable against his; it felt strange. She held on and on, tight enough it was hard to breathe. His own arms rose sluggishly in response. Weakly he rubbed her back, grimacing. She pulled back.

He stared up at her.

She kissed him softly. A promise.

In answer, his eyes strayed to the door; she shook her head. His focus locked onto hers; questions filled his gaze. Few of them mattered.

"Sh-she's gone."

"Imoen…"


	6. VI

VI

He looked at her, then at himself. The memory of it still burned. His thoughts lost themselves between the harbour's waves, as if waking to a dream.

—

'It' was a subject neither of them voiced. By the time they had caught up to his captor, they had a theory on what happened. Independently, they reached it, spun on legends, tales dismissed as fables, nonsense. A githyanki confirmed his suspicions as to _its_ existence; a lifetime of discipline shaken, a demigod's will shaken loose. A battle with Illithid, a chance happening, found them side by side, as cellmates, captured once again. Shaken by the alien monstrosities, Aerie retreated inwardly, but after facing his captor, little fazed her. She came out of her shell with a vengeance. The githyanki ravaged the complex while they made their escape and the Illithid elder brain suffered greatly before it died. They left the colony to its fate.

The Underdark was a place of revulsion for her; a place of exotic wonder to him. The surge had carried them there, caught in the throes of his captor's escape. Awakened to a ceiling without sky, it had taken them time to work out where they were; and then they were ambushed by Illithid scouts. A great cavern greeted them, seemingly endless. Directionless, they wandered, aware of the tales of horror that awaited them. Through magic, they spoke to the Duergar, whose encampment they stumbled upon. They told of Uth Natha, a Drow city, and of recent movement… his captor. Directions cost them, but gold meant nothing to either of them, and Aerie's healing the Duergar wounded was appreciated enough they provided a map to the surface and warned of Drow patrols.

Veiled from sight, sound and scrying, they reached the surface in time to learn their captor had passed through ahead of them. The dead lay everywhere; Drow fortifications and ancient elven ruins. A horde spelt death to the elven defenders, and the survivors retreated to the forest.

"It's… t-terrible."

He had no answer as he mechanically sorted through the dead. She kept watch. Carefully, they picked their way to the trees, leaving the few guards were they were. As they sought to gain their bearings, an elven party found them. Their spell had fallen.

—

"D-Do you miss it?"

He didn't reply. There was nothing to say.

"W-we could try…"

"No." They had already tried what she knew. She tried to remove a curse that wasn't there.

Her concern should have tugged at him; he felt nothing.

"Keep your strength," He told her shortly. "Rest."

In the elven glades, they should have been at peace. The stillness and majesty of the great oaks brought some solace, but little enough. Their hosts were a fragmented band trying to link with their commander; most of the force had retreated when the scale of the drow became apparent. No fires burnt, and they huddled together in twos and threes; Aerie followed their example, her hand finding its usual place in his. They lay under the stars, fingers entwined.

"Y-you're so cold…" She shivered, and glanced up, as if to check the sky was still there.

"He besieges our city," A muted voice snapped from afar. "We must relieve them."

"We cannot. We need the lantern."

"The exile will destroy our home!"

He did not hear the rest. The dreams that followed mocked him. In them, Imoen took form, and he watched her die a thousand deaths at the claws of a demon in elven form. He saw himself holding the knife.

—

'It' was still a topic to be avoided. His mind felt unaltered, but it was strange walking. His chest felt heavy, his dimensions changed; the proportions were wrong. He could not get used to it, nor how his flesh felt. Too soft, too spongy, and his insides felt twisted. No matter how he carried himself, it felt wrong. Aerie smiled, took his arm and showed him. Her amusement and sadness were confounded by her understanding; more concerned for what had happened to his soul, she tried to cheer him.

He did not respond.


	7. VII

VII

Soulless opened the path for Murder. His essence rose up, his inherent divinity claiming him more each day. A slow, gradual shift, but with its loss, his focus grew sharper even as his memories faded at their very fringe. Feeling began to die inside, and a slow, seeping coldness gnawed at the very edges of his being. Murder stalked inside, held back by will alone. Roaming like the demon in his dreams, it prowled, waiting to devour him as it had his brother. Power oozed from him, seeping from his very bones. It should have been intoxicating but it meant nothing. Without his spellbook, his scholarly pursuits dimmed, and power innate to him became his to mould. The very demon that would claim him was the conduit from which he channelled.

When battle came, it was his captor who was overpowered; unable to compete with the soulless demigod, he cast his spells of death, but death had forged his victim. Murder's child threw off the shackles forbidden by the Art, and took back what was his, leaving his foe writhing in the hell he dragged them to. Returning to the waking world, soul intact, he found there was no change in his body.

Aerie's lips tasted strange, but oddly wonderful, as if experiencing them for the first time. Their softness, their firm press, her warmth; his mouth curled up in a smile she found radiant. The elven queen, Ellesime, former lover of their foe, thanked them with words and gifts. Sorrow held her as she watched, and privately, she mourned, confiding the name of he who threatened her city. Joneleth.

Her magics could do nothing to undo what the surge had caused, her gods turning a deaf ear to her pleas. Together, she showed them the stone heads in the most ancient part of the glades. The foretelling, she told them, would arm them with knowledge.

—

"S-so…"

He smiled.

"It – you look pretty when you s-smile." She returned it.

Silence answered.

"Th-this i-is different."

"I thought we left hell behind." Ruefulness coloured his words, and surprising her, he forced his hand through his hair.

"Y-you need to wash that." She noted, not quite chiding. "I-I'll h-help, if you w-want."

A new voice interrupted his lack of reply.

"O-oh! A new master?" High, almost chirping, the imp scampered into view, hopping from one foot to another. "Shiny ones! Nice elven clothes– wait! No – no spells! Cespenar here to serve! Cespenar serves the great one, oh yes."

Aerie's hand caught his forearm, her stare searching, intent, anxious. His hand fell. While she quizzed the imp, his attention wandered…

"I greet you, godchild."

A being stepped out of time, radiant in light. Out of phase, she was a blur of blue crowned with gold and wings of white light. Her voice was as if the sun had taken form. Around him, Aerie and the imp stood unaware, still inside of time.

He did not answer.

—

The surge came again, and the chambers warped from their original purpose. Testing grounds, the Solar had called them; the trials came to life, breathed by divine essence, somehow crafted in the recesses of his unwaking mind. His dark doppelgänger, his former comrades, slain at Joneleth's hand and others. They poured out of the pocketplane, his 'little corner of hell', and invaded the unsuspecting world above. Twisted in every way, they were visions of nightmare, of what might have been. They went on to slay Amelyssan, his father's head priestess.

From inside the pocketplane, his brother laughed. It echoed long and hard, filling the plane with sardonic admiration and scathing ire; Sarevok, the brother he had slain, observed the irony. A wraith returned by the trials, Gorion's murderer stood sheathed in flesh.

Aerie was as pleased as the Solar. Unspoken disapproval flooded the plane; Aerie stood in lesser version, her arms folded. Bringing Imoen back was the only good thing the surge had brought. She found the situation troublesome, and 'it' hilarious. That it had returned his mother to him was… a challenge he found he could not face. The revelation she intended to slay her babe, prevented only by Gorion's intervention left him uncertain.

What struck all present was the likeness they shared; it was exact. In her, he saw his own features; as an elf, she was beautiful. As a woman, she was ravishing. Even Imoen's jaw dropped, and Sarevok's 'heh' was one of masked admiration and suggesting of unconscious lust. Cespenar referred to her as the "great one", emphasising the capitalisation when he caught himself.

Worse was Gorion. He and Aliana spoke at length.

A thousand monsters swarmed from the first chamber and each were put down in turn. Sarevok's gleeful slaughter was dwarfed by the magic his brother commanded in the plane. All paused and took stock.

Imoen, in passing, commented to Aerie that the place needed 'less green'; the swirling clouds and endless opening that formed the sky left her nauseous.

A few hours later, the sky had changed.

Several days on, Aerie sported a pair of black feathered wings.

The Solar did not voice her thoughts on what was obviously an abuse of power.


	8. VIII

VIII

Elated beyond words, Aerie still found time to speak with him privately. In soft, hushed tones, she raised her doubts, her fears. Away from the plane, the doppelgänger's shade waged war on its brethren. It would only be a matter of time before Murder's throne was claimed.

"W-we m-must stop it."

"It is part of me."

"Please." Using his name should have had some effect. It meant nothing to him anymore. She glanced over at his parents; one adopted, the other unwanted. "You must end this."

"It will end."

"What are you w-waiting for? For all your siblings to be s-slain?"

"Yes."

"It will f-feed off them!"

—

For all his trying, he could not reverse nor replicate the surge. His flesh still cloaked him in unwanted form. While Sarevok trained, smiting horrors that he allowed into the plane, Imoen watched, tutted, and practiced. "Whatcha lookin' at?" she'd ask when he noticed. Cross legged, she perched on a table, reminiscent of those from Candlekeep's inn. A bar and fireplace had also appeared; shelves of dusty tomes near by. Bit by bit, home was appearing, as if from a dream. Gorion and Aliana still spoke, sometimes in silence.

Aerie flew, but sadness gripped her. She felt Sarevok could not be trusted, and knew this peace could not last. He ignored it.

When the Solar came, he challenged her, and found by calling out to her, she came. From her, he learned of TrueNames, and wrested Sarevok's from him. Unwillingly, the wraith-made-man yielded it, and Imoen made plans to discover and abuse it. Threats of 'pink aprons', 'ironing', and 'scullery duty' were whispered. Sarevok's annoyance was revealed in grunts, much to her amusement.

At night, when night came, after the sun, or an image or mirror of the sun, appeared one hour, Aerie found him alone in his childhood cell, standing beside the fire as he read at his desk. The window overlooked an image of blue, of distant seas and skies, and far-off forest, but no breeze blew, nor birds sang. It was as much a dream as real.

She spoke his name.

"Yes, Aerie?"

"D-did I e-ever tell you about Uncle Q-Quayle?"

He nodded, with a smile.

"H-he spoke of h-how happy I made him."

As was his habit, he waited, giving her time.

"I… I was so s-sorry to leave him." She swallowed. "A-after K-Kalah… I n-never told you he died."

Silence.

"I-it's not your fault," Gentle assurance enveloped him from a smile bittersweet and tinged with sorrow. "Y-You had no one. You were hurt, b-broken. I – I thought…"

"You saw yourself."

She nodded.

For a time, neither spoke.

"I – I had nowhere left. With Uncle Q-Quayle…"

"I met him once, outside Baldur's Gate."

"I – I know. He – he spoke of what happened there. It's – it's how I knew you."

"What about those merchants?"

Her smile was slight. "Th-they were real." Seriousness washed over her, and with it, she crossed the small room to take his hands. "I – I know what you're w-wondering."

When he didn't answer, she continued.

"W-would I s-still have gone w-with you if – if Uncle Quayle had – hadn't died…"

He studied her.

She kissed him. Her slender lips parted gracefully, her fingers entwining in his hair. Mouth pressing to his, she breathed the words that forever had been unspoken between them. When she pulled back, it was to lose herself in his gaze as she searched his in wonder. Her warmth threaded through his nostrils, drawing in her scent as she slipped onto his lap. She did not speak; she did not have to. Her eyes lifted, arcing over his shoulder to the narrow cot. She looked back at him, questioningly.


	9. IX

IX

Murder's throne awaited. He stared across at his doppelgänger, separated only by time and space. The Solar looked on, her disapproval as obvious as the empty throne. With a single word, it would end; there was no need to fight himself any longer.

"It is time, godchild."

"I need a minute."

"You must decide."

He used her TrueName. She hesitated. "Very well. The gods have decreed… but the moment you step back into this time…"

"I understand."

—

"Cespenar has his uses." It seemed the imp knew a great deal of planar lore, and knew where the book of names was held, and who by. It was typical, then, that Imoen went off on an expedition and somehow dragged Sarevok with her. Her grin was one where questions were best left unasked. "Here you go, bro– sis, I guess."

His TrueName should have released him. It took more than a name, even his true one, to return him to what he should be.

"I didn't peak, honest."

Somehow, he didn't quite believe her.

"Oh, and I like the bed – d'you think you could make me one?"

—

As the waves rose and fell, he stared up at her and lost himself in those eyes. He hadn't asked if she thought he would be a good deity; he saw in her eyes the belief she held in him. No matter what he chose, he would always be great.

She spoke his name, softly, wonderingly, as if turning it over in her mouth somehow made it all the more precious. "G-gods have avatars, d-don't they?"

He smiled.

The End


End file.
